The Nixie
by Backroads
Summary: Things wait in the water by the old mill pond... and they never forget a promise made.
1. Promise

_I promise, this story will probably be no longer than three or four chapters! But I was just... inspired. I read the fairy tale the other day, and I couldn't resist._

* * *

No one went much near the old mill pond, and the path from the village had long given way to the whispers of trees, wind, and growing things. Things of shadow, things of deep green, things that hid themselves from mortal eye. The trail had all but disappeared under them, until few besides the deer and the badgers could show the way. But the old mill yet remained, cold and mortar-falling. The air there was chill, and the air flew for a mile around. The old mill had left the world as the forest had grown in; it belonged to the forest now, and the ghosts and the fey. 

The pond lay beneath the mill, too many shadows and too much mist to reflect neither a drop of tree or mill. It was dark, it was mossy, it held its own secrets. Many from the village, the elders who remembered the pond, said it was haunted.

Spirits lurked about the mill and its pond. There were things there, things in the water, things in the trees. That's what the man said, the one who returned to the tavern the day after his son's birth.

"I saw it in there," the man said. "When I was passin' through, when I became lost. I saw the old mill."

"Murders happened there," Old Seth said from his corner. "I remember them, the night the miller went mad."

Most didn't believe Seth.

The man wasn't sure. He had seen what he had seen. "Murder, maybe, ghosts, maybe. I've only seen what lies in there, I don't claim to know what it is."

The fire crackled in the stove, freshly fed with wood. The man refused a mug of ale. "I became lost out there. I found the mill, or it found me. I was trapped in the marsh, and I lost the ring my beloved Jael gave me."

But the ring yet glinted on his finger. Every eye noticed that.

The man continued, dark eyes distant. "Then it appeared, a soaken corpse only alive, more beautiful than anything in the form of a lady."

Whispers and smirks began.

"She grabbed my arm, said 'What will you give for the ring?' I said whatever she asked. 'The youngest thing in your household', she replied."

His son had just been born. The woman that poured the ale gasped.

And the man rolled up his sleeve. The arm was soaked, and bruises like mud had formed there-- hand prints.

For a long time, no one spoke. Night was approaching, forcing its way through the windows until the fire glowed with more power than the stars.

"The nixie will never leave her pond," Old Seth advised softly. "Just don't let the lad near there."

There it was. The solution.

But the man couldn't forget the face he had seen.

And, near the old mill, the pond rippled without a breeze.


	2. Blood

The noon sun was hot, and the dying summer air was stifling dry, ringing with the subtle aura of an approaching storm. Angela brushed the golden hair from her eyes. It was disgusting to sweat, but she had work to do. She had vowed with all her heart to be a good wife to her new husband, and if that meant she went gathering berries in the heat, that would be exactly what she would do. That morning she had set off into the woods with the new basket, a wedding gift, under her arms. Though many berries reached their peek in early August, others waited in the shadows, ready and ripe to burst like blood and begging to be made into a pie. Angela's dear grandmother had taught her to make the finest pies. As well as other things.

Children feared the forest, and so did many of the elders. They all sat around the tavern's fire, spinning tales of ghosts and goblins that haunted the woods and the old mill pond. Angela had grown up with those, and she had believed them for many a year. She had sat on her grandmother's knee, eyes wide to take in the firelight, and listened to the words of creatures that crept like shadows from the trees and the water. Beautiful and deadly spirits and fey, a woman's scream of murder from the old mill a century before. Like Sleeping Beauty's castle the woods had grown into cover the mill and the pond and the things that lurked.

But Angela was married now, hardly a child, and the fairy thorns that hid the mill had retreated back in the past twenty years. The tales were told less and less, though the trail was still difficult to find and the thickest trees remained.

The thickest trees hid the best berries.

And so Angela, humming merrily, made her way, forcing the trail to appear beneath her feet. As long as she sang, nothing could harm her. Maybe. Her grandmother had never told her how else to keep spirits at bay.

As she walked the sun faded and the heat broke against the leaves. She shivered, but the berries were thick and she made herself think of how much John would like her pie. They had married only two weeks before, and she loved John more than anyone.

The trees were like night. She held her breath and picked. What song could she sing here? She bent low into the bushes, pulling berry after berry. Her hands were stained... someone silly would say like blood.

She stood up and squeezed the basket with her stained hands. It was now like midnight. The trail beneath her had vanished.

She hadn't been gone so long. She had wandered further with friends before.

Something darted past, unseen. Not a deer, not a fox.

"Hello?" Angela asked. She gazed hard into the trees. Often children came this far.

A pale face flashed, turquoise eyes blazed. Who was like that?

_I will lead you from the trees._

No. She shook her head. No words, only the wind.

The trail once more appeared. She followed, barely sure it was the wrong way.

Someone before her sang, the same little tune she had hummed herself. Only not so merry, a little more sad. The sound of echoes.

She really should turn back. But now she was curious. She had always been the curious sort, and John had never agreed to come so far. With the slightest of grins, she pushed forward. The trees grew darker still, and the brush beneath was so thick her footsteps made no sound.

She pushed past the heavy curtains of a willow.

There stood the mill, dillapidated stones and little more. Beneath sat the pond, thick and green and blue. It reflected nothing... not Angela, though she gazed into it. It never had, on the few occasions she had ventured here. She used to play with the braver sorts, up on the rocks. John had never come; he hadn't been allowed. She breathed in the choking perfume of water and plants.

The sweat still stuck to her forehead. Disgusting. She leaned down, careful not to wet her dress, and began to splash the murky water onto her face. She was sure it would feel like moss.

The face swam before, turquoise eyes as large as moons, the face of a beautiful woman, only as pale as death. The hand, smooth and tiny as a girl's, reached and took Angela's wrist.

Angela screamed and pulled away. The hand did not seem to release as much as collapse into a splash against her skin.

But it stung, stung so badly she could hardly bare it. But she was already on her feet, bleeding wrist held against her breast.

She forgot the basket.


	3. Pond

Many said that the night was at its most potent when the moon was full, but John had never agreed. A full moon brought its oddities, there was no denying that, but it gave more: clear, pure light gleaming down as a midnight sun, enough power to break through shadows and reveal hidden secrets. There was safety at a full moon, there was protection, and John would have preferred the dangers of a full moon rather than what hung over him now.

Nothing. It was the time of the new moon when an inky blackness spread itself over the sky and between stars, demanding their suffocation. The light was scarce and weak when it did exist, feeding itself to shadows that grew like black ivy between the trees. Lantern light swung like a will-o-wisp against bark and plant and chased an owl from its perch. John breathed in the air. It was a strange blend of chill and warmth, and tasted like pine and oak. He had been out at night before, of course-- what man hadn't? But the woods... they were an entirely different part of the outdoors, and it was only the unfortunate soul caught in bad timing that was forced to travel through them. Regardless of fanciful tales, it just didn't suit common sense to be out there.

And nor was it that John was afraid. He was twenty years old, young and strong and hardly foolish enough to tempt a wild animal. The only reason he was out there at night was because of Angela's basket. He wished to surprise her with it in the morning. He smiled as he thought of her, the brave, bold girl with a mind of her own-- one of the things that had drawn him to her in the first place. He loved her, but he still didn't believe her story. A thing in the water, ghosts in the mill... there were other explanations for the blood on her arm. She had been upset about the basket, one of her favorite wedding presents, a gift from her dear friend. And the berries. She had gone on and on about the berries. He had told her he would return for the basket, though she had insisted he needn't bother. Women were so difficult to figure out. He could imagine her face, though, the next morning when her basket and her berries were sitting in the window morning sun waiting for her.

If only he could find the basket... he had never gone far down the path. His father had always forbidden in it. _Stay away from the mill pond, it is no place for you, John. _

For that reason only, it was exhilerating to go near. He felt like a child again, laughing and playing games amongst the trees. There was nothing truly terrifying here, save the new moon.

Still the lantern showed Angela's footsteps and place where the brush had been pushed down. A shred of fabric from her dress. He was on the right track.

He wondered what the mill pond would look like. He had heard all kinds of stories, from bare water to a ruined castle complete with skeletons with their skulls grinning out like fireflies. Smiling himself, he continued, no sound but crickets, owls, and the sound of his own feet.

And an echo of laughter.

But it had to be nothing more than his own imagination.

John pushed through the willow and gasped.

The mill pond was set aglow, though there was no moon to reflect itself there and barely the sight of stars. Still it was lit up, as if candles had been lit beneath the glass surface. And above it sat the dilapidated old mill, ancient entrance inviting.

Angela's basket sat there, berries waiting to be carried home. For a moment he considered picking it up, and he did as much as to take a handful of berries, which he shoved into his mouth. They were perfectly ripe, and the juice ran down his chin. Then he marched past weeds and rocks and fallen trees to the mill. Supposedly it was haunted. He wasn't sure if he believed that or not, but who could not love the idea? He peered into the doorway. It was musty and smelled like swamp water. An old sack, half-rotted, lay in one corner. The floor was strewn with plants and used birds' nests.

_I've watched this place a long time. _

John spun around, suddenly cold. No one was there. His imagination again. He turned back to the mill; the ceiling was covered in shadow. He held up his lantern, suddenly desperate for more light. Not enough, though if he stared long enough, he could almost see a gently swinging rope, frayed at the end. A rope not strong enough to long hold a body.

But for an instant that image passed over his eyes before fleeing away.

With a gasp he faced the pond. The body now lay in the lake, barely floating, wide eyes staring out to him.

It couldn't be. It had to be an enchantment of his mind.

Or someone had followed him. It was not a corpse. With sudden energy its mouth opened, eager for air, and an arm reached out. John hopped down the rocky shore to the pond's edge and held out his arm. "Grab on!"

But the man did not swim toward him. Only its hand reached out, fingers trembling.

John began to take off his jacket. He wasn't sure what he was about to do.

_Such a kind boy._

His gaze fell to the water near his feat.

A face smiled up at him, the face of a beautiful woman with turquoise eyes and pale skin. Her hair, blue green, spun around her like soaked cobwebs.

Then she reached up, grabbed his hand, and pulled him in.

She was too strong to fight, and the dark water rushed past him until he was covered. All he could see was the shadows of living thigns and the glow of the woman's face.


	4. Gifts

The full moon had risen to a glowing eye in the sky, far larger than anyone in the village had ever remembered seeing. They paid it no mind tonight, however, and only commented nonchalantly to one another and shut their windows. Save two.

Old Seth sat in the tavern with his thick mug of ale, one of the last pleasures left in his life-- he expected to die soon, and thus had no qualms about giving away a few precious objects to a girl. He watched outside the window, watched the full moon, and prayed to heaven that all would go well.

Angela's grandmother waited in her rocking chair, which she had moved outside to her porch. The air was still warm, and all an old woman needed was a good shawl, and it was good enough for her. She had no intention of going inside this night. She pulled out her knitting, a scarf for her granddaughter for the winter months ahead. She knew it would be a cold winter. She knew many things, one of the pleasures of old age.

She had learned a thing or two about nixies from her own grandmother. Good, useful wisdom, to be passed on to a granddaughter.

Her granddaughter deserved a gift. The old woman chuckled to herself, a noise similar to that of the crickets, and gazed off into the woods. There, among the trees and near the old stone ruins, something marvelous, hopefully, would take place.

The wind whistled past the old woman, blowing her grey hair and tumbling loose leaves clear into the trees. The wind caught on branches and danced past trunks until finally passing a young girl standing on the shore of an old mill pond.

"Everyone else has given you up for dead," she whispered. She wondered if John could hear her.

The wind seemed to answer back, and the branches of the willow waved their response.

Silly question. Of course he could. Why else would she be out here if he could not hear her?

The pouch hung at her side, soft fur made from the hide of fox. She pulled out the first item. A loaf of bread she had made herself that very day, still possessing a sense of warmth and the scent of something good. She held it to her nose before holding it above the water.

The man appeared. The dead man rose from the water as if pulled by an invisible noose. Staring eyes rolled toward her, and the body, dressed in rotted clothing, glided toward her.

Angela's hand shook, and it almost seemed that something crunched in the woods behind her, but she did not move or cry out. That was the hardest part, her grandmother had said. This was the hardest part.

The dead man was almost to the shore now. His skin was pale, nearly translucent, and deep, bloodless cuts gaped open on his neck and arms. His eyes flashed violently.

"Bread for thee, Ghost of the Mill," she said clearly. "Bread I have baked for thee."

With one limp arm, the corpse took the bread. "Maiden, what do you wish?"

The dead man's feet rippled the water. Angela tried not to notice. "I wish to bring gifts to the nixie. I ask your permission to do so, for you guard this pond."

"Gifts." The dead man nodded. "You may."

And, as if the invisible rope had been cut, the body plummeted into the water. The cold water splashed all over Angela, and once again it took all her power not to cry out. Old Seth had given her the gifts. She pulled the first one out.

It glinted in the faint moonlight. A golden comb.. No telling why Old Seth had it. Strange objects often held their secrets. She slid the comb's teeth through hair, once, twice, three times. Then she held it above the pond for a long time. She wasn't sure how long. Then she set it close to the water.

In an instant the waves leapt up, soaking Angela's bare feet. When the wave retreated, the comb was gone.

Like an ocean tide the waves rushed back further into the lake, stealing more water to join them. And, as they passed, a head appeared.

The face of John, staring out at her.

Don't say his name, Angela thought. She was not to say his name. Not until the spell was broken.

John mouthed something, something she couldn't hear. And then, once more, he was gone.

Angela pulled out the second gift. A flute, carved from the finest wood, a tree Angela had never heard of. Old Seth had carved it himself. She put it to her lips and played a melody, the same tune she had hummed when she had first approached the pond. It wasn't the same song now. It bit through the night like wolve's teeth, and it seemed that even the trees and the wind stopped their dance to listen. The shape of the dead man appeared just under the surface, listening and staring up with haunted eyes.

Then, like the comb, she set it at her feet.

Once again, the water rose up to snatch it. They rolled back, thick shards of glass.

And there was John, waist-deep in the water. He was alive, and Angela found herself taking another step to the pond. He smiled at her, a wishing smile of hope. He was pleading with her. A strange case. A woman should not have to save her husband, the husband would protect the wife.

But he could not protect her as he was.

Water plants were wrapped around him, digging into his flesh. Could he bleed?

And then, once more, he was gone.

And only one gift remained.. The most precious. A miniature spinning well, fashioned of silver, a toy much loved by Old Seth's dead wife. Its tiny spindle glinted. Not daring to close her eyes, Angela pressed her finger to it until the blood flowed all over the wheel.

Use it for a good cause, Old Seth had said.

She held the spinning wheel close to her heart for several long seconds before, with all her might, tossing it into the middle of the pond.

She leapt up then, the nixie, impossibly long hair trailing behind her until Angela wasn't sure what was the nixie's hair and what was the waves. Long fingers snatched the bloody wheel until both figures sank deep down while the waves circled around.

Angela stared at the sight, her heart soaring. This was a strange sight to see, the sight stories were made of. But it did not hold her gaze long, for the waves sunk back, and there was John. He laughed once and held out his arms as the weeds dried and broke from his body. With her own laugh Angela rushed at him, splashing into the water as he came for her. She did not care for the cold, and neither did her.

But then, with a hiss, a figure sprang up between them. The nixie, no longer beautiful, but an animal-spirit, sharp toothed, with long fingernails that scratched into Angela's eyes.


	5. Power

Angela barely saw the nixie's hands, just flashes of silver quivering before her eyes. They did not cut, as she feared they might, but landed like acid burning. Angela reeled back with a cry in a voice she didn't recognize, but still her hands reached out for John's. In a moment they touched and held fast.

The nixie screamed, Oddly enough, John had expected the sound of an animal, but this noise was terribly human. The nixie whirled between them, now mostly water and that horrible scream twisting from her throat and light, the coldest, bluest light he had ever seen. It was almost blinding, but John didn't care. He held fast to his wife's hand. "Angela," he whispered. He couldn't wait to tell her what he had experienced. Water and darkness and the wickedly beautiful face of the nixie, smiling as she bound him into the midst of all her other treasures: pretty rocks, jewelry, the bleached skeletons of both animal and human. The watery sleep. The oblivion of time.

Angela blinked back hard, washing the nixie's touch away with her own tears until she could see John's face watching back at her with so much love that she felt her heart would burst.

"I won't give up on you," he whispered at the same time she did.

He was free. The green chains had fallen away, and all that stood between him and Angela was the nixie, the strange creature both ghost and fey. She no longer wanted him, she wanted vengeance upon Angela.

Angela felt the corpse near her, the dead man she had fed. What stories had he and the nixie fed? What had happened at the mill? What children's horror and imagination perked because of what went on here? _Don't give up_, he said. Stand strong, _wait her out._

But the nixie was so strong.

_You gave her gifts, beautiful trinkets she accepted. _

John felt Angela's grip slipping. But it couldn't be the dead man. John, too, saw the corpse, floating in the water nearby, ghastly pale in the darkness; the pond's light had vanished, and only the nixie's light remained.

Angela felt more tears.

_She has no power over you. _And with a smile, more alive than dead, the corpse sunk back into the water.

She would not take Angela. "Hang on," John whispered.

The nixe's whirling force was like a storm of wind, water, and ice.

Angela took a deep breath and tightened her grip. She would not faint. She would wait it out.

Around the pond the breeze howled, warm and cool at the same time as the end of summer was. It smelled like woods and life and night. It did not care what happened in the pond. It blew through the trees, regardless of time, as the full moon watched above.

And, finally, the nixie gave her final scream. Like a tower crumbling she collapsed with nary a splash, only glowing ripples of turquoise in the dark and still water.

Angela and John's fingers slid into one another, and the two fell, crying, into one another's arms as the first light of orange dawn lit the sky somewhere beyond the woods.

_The End._


End file.
